Valor and Violence

Erwell swept his eyeglass along the fortress ramparts from his vantage point within the Calandorian camp. A handful of fighters dotted the walls, their faces gaunt and withdrawn, looking down on Erwell and his men. Men who, by contrast, were fat, dumb and happy, with all the water and rations they could need.

The foreigners were already feeling the effects of their dwindling supplies. Though they had laughed when the company arrived, casting amused glances from the safety of their high walls, the amusement had disappeared after their first few scavenging parties failed to return. Their next move had been to sally en masse to drive off the marines.

It had been a slaughter to rival the cliff when the griffon riders swooped from their hidden eyrie. Now the survivors hunkered down, waiting for a miracle, their numbers likely half of what they were.

Satisfied, Erwell snapped his eyeglass shut. The royal army was a few hours away, due to arrive in the early afternoon. Right on schedule.

Which was why Erwell stood in his camp, worrying.

The forces in the fortress had done nothing of note. At least, not that he had seen, but it was unlikely they had been sitting on their hands. They had seven days to prepare for the coming battle, and Erwell had no idea how they had used it.

“I know that look, sir. And I don’t like it,” Groth said as he came up to stand beside Erwell.

“I’m positive I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sergeant Major,” Erwell replied innocently.

Groth spat a wad of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Like Pit, you don’t. I remember that look from Marduk. If I recall correctly, you almost got eaten by a drake shortly after.”

Smartarse.

“Since when do you dip?” Erwell asked, trying to change the subject.

“Traded with a rider the other day. And yer dodging my question.”

Erwell sighed. “I don’t know what they’re doing in there, Groth. They could have anything waiting for us. I don’t want the army to march blindly into a trap.”

“Don’t suppose there’s a chance they have just, patiently waited for death to come claim them?”

“Would you?”

Groth spat again. “No. But I’m a shit tonne better than they are.”

“Your humility never ceases to amaze,” Erwell said with a wry smile. “But now you’re the one who’s dodging.”

“Aye, you caught me. Well done, sir. Still don’t think you should go in there before the army arrives, though.”

“Someone has to.”

“You’ve got squad leaders for this sort of reconnaissance.”

“So you keep telling me. But how can I send them on such a dangerous task if I’m unwilling to do so myself?”

“Trust me, you’ve nothing left to prove. Not with this lot. If you want eyes inside the wall, send a small team. We need you out here.”

Erwell opened his mouth to argue, but snapped it shut. Slowly, he nodded.

“You’re right. I’m needed out here-”

“Sir, no!”

“To lead the distraction assault!”

“Godsdamnit, sir, that’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

Erwell slapped a fist into the palm of his hand. “You’re a genius, Groth. Round up the squad leaders. Orders are in ten minutes.”

As he marched off to his tent to prepare his gear, he left his sergeant major muttering darkly behind him.

“Don’t know why I bloody bother,” the giant grumbled.

Erwell wasn’t sure whether or not he was meant to hear, but his face creased into a juvenile smile all the same.

*

Erwell surveyed his squads as they finalised their preparations. They were still within the camp, letting the tents and palisades mask their intentions from the guards on the walls. It would be hard to fully conceal their movements, though. The grappling hooks were easy enough to keep hidden, but as a pair of marines hauled a giant siege shield to the assembly area, Erwell reflected they would almost certainly be spotted.

With a bit of luck, the foreigners would just assume they were preparing for the royal army’s arrival instead of a reckless feint to allow the First Squad to get over the walls undetected. If their luck was poor, this would be a very short and costly charge.

“Are you sure about this, sir?” Groth asked. As per usual, he was by Erwell’s side, surveying the troops.

“Never, Sergeant Major. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

The key to a successful feint lay in the mass and velocity of the feinting force. If it was too small or timid, the enemy might figure out it was a distraction. It was critical to pose a legitimate threat to the foreigners. And if resistance was less than expected and they could press the assault? Well, the best reconnaissance was conducted in force, in Erwell’s humble opinion.

The plan was to hit the walls with the hooks, put two squads on top, and then take stock of the situation. Erwell was confident they could seize the wall segment before the enemy could marshal the bulk of their forces. Once up high, he could get a better view of the opposition and withdraw before their counterattack. First Squad, meanwhile, would find a spot to hole up until nightfall, then locate the mystery device and, hopefully, sabotage it.

When the preparations were complete, Erwell nodded at the assembled marines. It wasn’t especially dramatic or inspiring, but it was silent and conveyed the required message.

It was time.

As one, the company tore through the camp towards the fortress, Erwell at the head of the charge. As they passed the palisade, the fighters on the wall spotted them and started panicking. A few nocked arrows, loosing optimistic pot shots at the encroaching force, while the rest ran about like scared rabbits. The arrows didn’t so much as slow the marines’ charge, their loose formation allowing the fighters to easily evade the missiles. As they approached, the enemy grew more frantic, a few more bowmen engaging the marines, while others fled. The company finally sustained some casualties, isolated grunts of pain announcing arrow strikes, but it wasn’t enough to stop them.

Erwell slammed to a halt against the rough stone wall and took a bead on a bandit cowering behind a crenelation. The fool popped out, bow at the ready, but Erwell was faster, his javelin piercing the man’s throat. Poor dumbass couldn’t even scream as he tumbled from his perch.

“Shields up! Throwers, get those hooks set now!” Erwell bellowed. The shield bearers dutifully deployed their equipment before adding their javelins to the back and forth with their enemies on the wall, while the throwers unfurled their ropes behind the portable cover. Within a few seconds, the first hooks were set.

“Second and Third Squads, with me!”

Erwell cut in front of a bewildered marine, hauling himself hand over hand up the taught rope. He grit his teeth as he climbed, his eyes trained above, just waiting for a bandit to pop over the side and put an arrow in him.

His blood ran cold as his worst fears were realised, a face that only a mother could love looming into view behind a drawn bow. A javelin punctured the man’s chest as he released his shot, the arrow going wide by bare inches. Groth shouted up at Erwell from somewhere below.

“I’d appreciate if you could hurry the fuck up, sir!”

Erwell grinned. He was foolish to have been concerned. There was nothing to worry about with a man like Groth at his back. He redoubled his efforts, vaulting over the lip of the battlement and drawing his sword. A shrill war cry was his only warning before a bandit was on him, the man swinging a rusty axe with reckless abandon.

Erwell briefly locked eyes with the bloke as he caught the axe with his cross guard. His eyes were wild, like a panicked beast, as he shrieked and drove forward. The corded muscles in his arms strained as he forced his blade, inch by inch, towards the captain’s neck.

Cael, he’s strong, Erwell thought as he eyed the tarnished metal creeping towards him. But lacking in skill.

With a savage grin, Erwell rammed his knee into the bandit’s gut, folding him in two. As the man stumbled, he hooked an arm around his throat, chocked his feet with a leg, and twisted, hurling the man off the parapet. The bandit screamed.

For a little while at least, until he hit the ground with a dull thump.

Erwell quickly checked the wall on either side of him. He was alone among the living. Calandorian marines were famed for their skill with the javelin, and the few fighters that had opted to contest the fortifications lay where they fell, javelins protruding from necks and chests. Content he was safe for now, he turned his gaze to the camp beyond the walls.

“By the Pantheon,” he breathed. The camp sprawled before him, a ramshackle mix of tents and crude log buildings scattered throughout the amphitheatre carved into the mountain. Based on Grin’s information, he had expected a total force of just under five hundred fighters of various backgrounds. This camp was built to hold upwards of a thousand.

An impressed whistle in his ear snapped him out of his reverie. He jumped, despite himself, and turned to find Oliver, a sword strapped to his waist and a stool leg in each hand.

“Seems like old mate held out on us,” the spymaster said.

“Or they arrived after he left,” Erwell replied.

Oliver glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “You think they brought more through from Aderath?”

“Yes. And I think the decision had little to do with our arrival. There’s no way they could marshal this many men on such short notice. They were always meant to be here, and now.”

“And let me guess; this means that we haven’t influenced their timeline at all?”

“No. Whatever they had planned, it stayed on schedule.”

“But if that’s the case… where is everybody?”

Erwell was asking himself the same thing. He understood the bandit’s mania now. They had left a skeleton crew to man the walls as a deception. He had known there was no help coming. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he fled with the others?

On the far side of the camp, a pair of deserters from the wall hesitated at the entrance to a dark tunnel. They dithered, looking between the hole in the mountain and the marines. Eventually, they crept inside.

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

*

Erwell stalked through the tunnel at the head of a small force, sword in hand, a quenched torch hanging from his belt. They had expected to need their own light source, but it seemed Phillip had thought ahead, hollowing out regularly spaced chimneys to bring sunlight in from the outside. It was still a gloomy pit, but the effect was more atmospheric than disruptive.

“Nice of that earth mage to leave behind some mood lighting,” Groth grunted.

Erwell stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, just… thinking something similar.”

The two marines were advancing at the head of a two-squad reconnaissance force while the rest of the company fortified the fortress gates. Hopefully, the hasty defences wouldn’t be needed, but if the foreign army hidden somewhere in the mountain sallied forth, Erwell’s men would need something between them and their enemies. If they were to have any hope of holding the gatehouse long enough for the royal army to arrive, anyway.

A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. They had advanced deep into the mountain, their progress tracking steadily downwards, but they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the foreigners. He paused, glaring into the gloom before him, willing his enemies to appear. So far, his dashing tactical masterstrokes had failed to deliver the decisive battle he sought.

“What’re you thinking, sir?” Groth asked.

“Yes,” Oliver said, shouldering through a squad to stand with them. “What are you thinking?”

Groth grunted and walked off while Erwell sighed and closed his eyes. The bloody spymaster had insisted on coming. When the captain had pointed out the reconnaissance would be incredibly risky and of no inherent value to an intelligence operative, a strange look had come over Oliver’s face and he insisted anyway, claiming he ‘expected value more than Erwell could realise’. It was the latest in a string of odd behaviours from the man, and the mistrust brewing in Erwell’s guts since their flight from Dalion and Phillip had grown.

“I’m thinking,” Erwell replied, trying to keep his teeth from grinding audibly. “That we’re chasing shadows. We’ve been walking for close to an hour and seen nothing.”

“You think they’re somewhere else?”

“I doubt it. They’ve put too much effort into this place for it to be a decoy position. They’re definitely down here.”

“Then we should continue on our heading!”

“No. We’re already farther from the company than I’d like. If we run into them this deep, there’s no way we can fight our way back.”

“But we need to know what they’re up to!”

“Not much value discovering their activities if we don’t survive to carry the information back to the surface.”

“Captain, I have to insist-”

“Sir!” Olic called from a few meters ahead. “You might want to see this.”

While Erwell and Oliver had argued, Olic been clearing the path ahead and was currently peering at a spot on the wall. The captain couldn’t see how it was any different to the surrounding wall, but as he approached, something glinted, reflecting the ambient light at him.

It was metallic.

Brassy.

“Well, found some of the Resonance Ore, at least,” Groth mumbled, the unease at standing so close to it clear in his voice. “Any clue what it’s for?”

“No idea. This isn’t all the Ore these bastards have stolen, though. This is just part of whatever set up they have going.”

On closer inspection, it was a band, only a few millimetres wide, that stretched to the floor on both sides of the tunnel.

“Are we going to keep going, then? We have proof they are nearby, after all,” Oliver asked.

Erwell turned and looked at him. The half-light cast strange shadows across the spymaster’s face, obscuring and distorting his features, except for his wide eyes shining in the dark. The excitement dancing in their depths seemed almost… manic.

“Absolutely not,” Erwell replied, slowly. “I wasn’t too keen before, but now I’m fairly certain they’re drawing us into a trap.”

“Oh, come now, where’s the dashing military commander I’ve heard so much about at court?” Oliver goaded.

“I doubt I’ve been mentioned at court at all, Spymaster. We’re going to head back to the surface, wait until the army arrives, and have the engineers collapse the damn tunnel.”

“That won’t stop them, though!” Oliver replied, a desperate edge creeping into his voice. “They can still escape to Aderath, or have Phillip burrow a fresh path into Calandor!”

“I’m happy enough for Aderath to handle a thousand strong army with murky allegiances, and they can’t make a new tunnel without food or water. Come on, boys! We’re leaving!”

The marines dutifully turned towards the entrance as Oliver spluttered a protest, but everyone froze when a faint sound wafted up the tunnel.

Erwell closed his eyes, focussing on his hearing as the sounds crystallised around him.

It was the sound of battle.

A bloody big one.